Fate's Game
by Raskol
Summary: DISCONTINUED; FF8 novelization. The world is caught in the midst of war and an encroaching darkness blankets the earth. But from the chaos rises a group of heroes: the Children of Fate. They are the sparks that will light the fire and throw back the dark.
1. Prologue: Deathbout

**Prologue: Deathbout**

Black combat boots ground into the gravel, halting as a rumble of thunder broke through the oppressive silence. He glanced up at the sky, a grimace twisting the corner of his mouth, before returning his attention to the fine grains strewn out before him like powdered ash. A barren landscape complete with varying shades of grey lay sprawled out in front of him, dehydrated and parched. Arid like a desert except not nearly so colorful.

And, of course, not nearly so safe. A twinge of self-doubt sparked briefly in his mind before he snuffed it out. Still, out of all the places, out of all the _hundreds_ of possible locations—why the hell this one? Sure, it was far out of the reach of prying eyes, but was a volcanically-active region entirely necessary?

As if to support his misgivings, a fissure hidden behind a ring of rocks took the chance to expel a deep belch of fire, the orange glow casting a warm pall over his otherwise dull surroundings. Smoke spiraled into the atmosphere, grasping like ethereal fingers at nothing. With a frown, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and coughed up the itching sensation in his throat. The acrid odor of sulfur and soot burned through his nose, made his eyes water—and he was getting no closer to finding _him._

_Damn you._ Staring out at the monotonous environment, he picked a direction and began walking again.

A storm was coming, he knew—was already upon him. Lightning sputtered and vanished and returned with the sound of a cracking whip. He felt the earth tremble beneath his feet, as if a train was passing by underground. The world flashed in and out of sight: A large clearing. High boulders that squatted like shadowy sentinels around the outskirts. Grey dust and grey ash and grey dirt.

A harsh shrill. Metal cutting through air.

His mind snarled a warning. He unsheathed his gunblade, pivoted, met the attack with an overhand block. Metal clashed against metal; a silver blade screeched against a black blade; Lionheart collided with Hyperion in a shower of sparks. As he strained for control, his ambusher's angular features and dancing green eyes leered at him from out of the darkness, the man's hot breath puffing into his face—and then the man leaned forward, gave a final push, and retreated with a smirk.

Knees bent and weapon still upraised, he eyed the man's figure warily, unwilling to let his guard down for even a moment. The man, for his part, straightened up, laughed, and drew a gloved hand over his short blond hair. His slender gunblade, Hyperion, dangled at his side, its tip digging into the dirt.

"Rule number one: always be ready, alert, vigilant," the man said. "Your enemies won't pull blows like me." A pause, but then, at his silence, the man's mouth stretched into a grin. "Nothing to say? Well then"—and here he shook off a glove, tossing it to the ground—"the gauntlet's thrown. 'Til first blood. Let's dance." Hyperion rose and leveled itself at him.

A soft flapping. A clap of thunder. A flare of lightning. His rival's aristocratic face lit by the lurid light. A hot wind blew through the clearing, ruffling the white fur on the collar of his jacket. Rain started pelting from the sky, a few fat drops at first that rapidly multiplied, becoming a downpour. Water sprang off Lionheart's broad silver length and pattered against the rocks. The dual winged lions engraved into the sides of his gunblade bellowed their defiance into the storm.

And then the man attacked, weapon whirring and whistling as it sliced through the air.

In an instant, Lionheart snapped up to block the stroke, turning the blade aside. His rival drew away. Boots rasped on wet gravel. Black metal glistened with rainwater. He ducked as the blade hurtled towards his neck, brought his own silver gunblade up to deflect another blow from Hyperion only to find it rushing at his chest. At the last moment, he parried—but not before the tip of the man's weapon caught the white fabric and tore through his shirt. Shaken by the close call, he fell back, breathing hard through his nose.

"A little slow there, eh?" the man called over the din of the rain. "Shape up! I want a challenge. I didn't lose all that sleep just to kick your ass in half a minute!"

He glared back at the man, blinking water out of his eyes. His clothes hung heavily against his body, completely soaked through, the chilly cloth plastered to his abdomen. The metal chain and pendant around his neck burned his skin with the cold. He could hardly see. With narrowed eyes, he rushed forward, lunged, swore as he almost lost his footing. But his violent action had the intended effect; his rival stumbled backwards. With the extra space to work with, he recovered and pursued the man. A brutal cleave across, Lionheart gleaming with silver fire—

—and Hyperion slashing through the air to meet it. More sparks. A roar from the heavens. Blinding white light. The man disengaged, parried, riposted. The black blade rested itself against his throat, threatening and dark.

"You'd have your head cu—" the man began, and then Lionheart swung up, swatting Hyperion aside. His rival retreated, an expression of surprise flitting across his face.

His mouth thinned in grim satisfaction as he studied the man's motions through the haze of rain. Sloppy, careless, relaxed motions—a ruse. Under all that blasé attitude, the man was poised to strike. Squinting, he tried to track his rival's movements but all he could make out were the crimson dagger-like crosses emblazoned on the upper sleeves of the man's grey trench coat. Very well, that would do.

Suddenly, the twin lines of red streaked towards him. The man was moving! He fended off the attack. Blades intersected. Muscles strained as they each tried to gain control of the bout. A shove—they were separated again. The man attempted an agile thrust that he deflected with ease. He swung Lionheart at the man's head, but the man ducked and lunged for his foot from his crouch. He stumbled away.

"Tsk, tsk. So clumsy," the man said as he straightened. "Let me teach you a bit about style!"

Rushing in with an inhuman speed, the man made good his promise. He spared a moment to wonder at the rapidity before his mind was forced back to the battle. Hyperion darted about in a flurry of blows that threatened to jar Lionheart out of his hands. He gritted his teeth. His rival had control of the tempo. Not good.

Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot split the air. Lionheart shuddered. His grip loosened.

A fatal slip, but it was too late. The man jerked Hyperion up, sending Lionheart racing skywards.

"You used your trigger," he said. He drew back. Kept his eyes trained on the arcing object overhead.

"Your enemies won't follow your rules. You'll thank me when you're not dead on the field."

He shot a glance at the man, shook his head—_Arrogant bastard!_—and turned his attention back to the airborne gunblade. The silver weapon flew upwards, reached the peak of its flight, came crashing down point-first in the soil. It sank into the earth. He seized the handle and pulled it from the dirt, his fingers scrabbling over the slick handle. He adjusted his grip to compensate.

"Come on, I don't have all day!"

With his gunblade held off to the side, he charged, Lionheart sweeping rapidly in. But the man batted the blade aside and launched an attack of his own: a maelstrom of stabs and strokes. He fended them off in the nick of time. The man grinned as he withdrew.

"Tired already?" the man asked. "I haven't even started yet."

Spinning around stylishly, his rival charged. His light blade struck Lionheart's silver steel. The two broke away again. As the man stood there recovering, he ran in, gunblade upraised, trying a stroke that Hyperion deflected. His rival smirked as he attempted another easily sidestepped rush.

"Thought you were faster than that!"

He spun around, boots kicking up clumps of dirt and pebbles and digging impressions into the ground. The man smiled and gestured with a free hand, gunblade held tip-up towards the sky, exposing his undefended body.

He feinted low as he came in, aimed a blow at the man's head. But his rival spun out of the way just in time. Another stroke, another parry. The silver gunblade came down onto the man in an overhand swing, but it never reached its target, blocked as it was by Hyperion. With a rough shove, the man kicked him in the chest and used the opening to throw Lionheart off.

"These dirty tricks'll save you someday!" the man said. He picked himself up, blew water off his lower lip as he focused his vision on the shape of his rival's body. "You'll see when I'm alive and you're dead!" And with that, the man dashed forward. With no time to defend, he retreated. A sneer darkened the man's face.

"Scared, are you? You finally learned your lesson!" The man advanced with long strides.

_Overconfident, arrogant son of a bitch_. He sprang and took the opening. Silver met black and threw up gold once, twice, three times—but the man succeeded in checking all the blows somehow.

A thought struck him. His rival—the man was junctioned! Snarling, he sprinted towards the figure, throwing all he had into that one act.

But at the last moment, a shimmer of heat in the man's hand caught his eye. Except he couldn't stop. His momentum carried him forth.

And then the fireball struck his chest, throwing him backwards into a boulder. Lionheart clattered to the ground. A black blade descended towards his face.

Death trumpeted triumphantly in the empty recesses of his mind. He tried to move but found himself rooted to the ground. Horrified, he watched—

—and fire erupted between his eyes. A roar of pain. A burst of adrenaline. He reached for his gunblade, fingers scrabbling over the pebbles and mud until they met the familiar revolver-like handle. The man chuckled, a hollow sound.

With an immense effort, he grasped it and swung it upwards. There was a terrible scratching sound over the rain as the metal scraped against stone. The hilt was slippery from the water. He hazily worried that it would slide out of his hands. Then Lionheart's tip struck the man between the eyes and carved a valley up to the temple. A river of crimson fluid burst from a dam and flowed down the man's face.

Lionheart, bloodstained, clattered from his hands. Dazedly, he glanced at the dirt. It too was stained with blood. He fell to the ground.

"Son of a bitch!"

The cry had come from above, almost hidden by an answering rumble of thunder. It echoed eerily in his ears. Darkness encroached on the edge of his vision. He struggled to hold it off.

"You bastard," he said.

Then he fell into oblivion's greedy and wet grasp.


	2. I: Balamb Garden

**Chapter I: SeeDs within a Garden**

_He stands before a wide expanse of grey ocean and scans the horizon. Bleak clouds blanketing the sky. Foamy waves undulating like prairie grass swept by a breeze. Seagulls circling overhead, their harsh caws filling the air. A salty wind descends to tug at his clothes. He shivers. _

_"Sis?" The whisper sounds as if it were torn from him. Like heartstrings ripping and shredding apart. He swallows. "Just so you know…I'll be right here…" _

_A rumble of thunder. Like the withheld roar of a beast. The grey-blue seawater breaks on the rugged shore with a crash, and a slow and steady rain begins to fall. Runs down his cheeks like tears. But they aren't tears for he doesn't cry. Not now, not anymore, not ever. _

_"I'll be right here," he says again, "waiting for you. So…if you come here…you'll find me…I promise." _

_He blinks as a raindrop slides into the corner of his eye. A distant shout. He can't really hear it over the murmur of the sea. _

_"But…if you don't come…I'll take care of myself." _

_The voice calls again. He turns. Gives a final look at the ocean. "I'll be all right. You'll see." _

---

Cracked lips. Swollen tongue. Dry throat. Smell of antiseptics. A waterfall thundering in the distance.

He groaned. Pried his eyes open and shut them again as piercing sunbeams sent dull aches shooting through his forehead. It felt like his skull had been caught between a hammer and an anvil. With a grunt, he ignored his sore muscles and turned on his side. The mattress beneath him squeaked, bounced, remolded itself to his shifting body. The red-tinged darkness receded. Left elusive green and purple spots dancing against the backdrop of his lids.

He lay there, and his memory slowly pieced itself together, detaching itself from the dream-he-couldn't-quite-remember: A blaze of orange. A blade streaking towards him, black metal gleaming with water. A burst of white light, a rumble—and the grey world disappearing in a haze of red.

_Seifer..._

He opened his eyes.

White walls. Patches of golden sunlight. A chair of blue plastic. A gunblade sheathed in black. His reflection in a glass window gazed back at him, white bandages covering its forehead. That must be where he had been cut. He reached up. Fingers met rough bindings. With a wince as the skin beneath began to sting, he withdrew his hand and twisted once again onto his back. Squinted at the brightness before rearranging his head so that it moved out of the sunlit strip.

"You're awake," said a voice. "That's good. I had expected you to be out for a few more hours considering the amount of blood you lost."

"Wha—" he began hoarsely. He stopped and cleared his throat. Stared at the ceiling. Tried to keep a sudden upwelling of panic submerged. Today was the Field Exam. Gods, why had he even agreed to the bout? What would he do if it was already over? A green curtain fluttered cheerily in the corner of his vision as a warm spring breeze blew through the open window. "What time is it?"

"Eleven o'clock in the afternoon. We brought you in at six, so I suppose five hours isn't too bad." The doctor paused and cut him off: "And no, you haven't missed the SeeD Exam. It starts at four."

A wave of relief rolled over him. If he had missed the exam merely because he had been confined to the Garden infirmary, he would never have forgiven himself. But what about Seifer? With a sickening feeling, he lifted his head and propped his body up with his elbows. Doctor Kadowaki stood in the doorway of his sickroom, hands on her hips and lips drawn into a parchment-thin line.

"Seifer?" he asked, dreading the answer. As much as he disliked the man—if he had killed him—but no, he couldn't have…

"Seifer's fine." He let out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding. Kadowaki continued: "He was junctioned. Cast Cure on both of you before bringing you back to the Garden. I know he has some problems but"—here she smiled wryly, and he suddenly noticed how careworn and tired she looked—"he seemed to have his priorities straight out there."

He nodded. Let himself drop back down onto the bed. "Yeah," he said.

There was a long silence. Then he heard her sigh. "Well, if I'm to release you, I'll need to check your eyes, make sure you're functioning properly so that you don't collapse when you try to walk. Wait here and don't move." Her footsteps receded into the next room, into her office. He counted the ceiling tiles as he waited. Three across and three wide. Nine, with little specks of black strewn all over them. And how many specks were there? One, two, three...

She returned and hovered over him, a penlight held in her wrinkled hand. Shone it into his eyes while he fought against the urge to blink. "They're focusing. Great." With a rustle, the penlight disappeared into a pocket on her lab coat.

He made a motion to get up, but she restrained him. "Hold up," she said. "No sudden movements or you'll become dizzy—though I can't imagine how you'll manage that with the Field Exam. And you haven't taken the Fire Cavern Test yet either, have you?" Before he could answer, she went on: "The scar'll be there to stay unfortunately. Say your name for me."

"Squall. Squall Leonhart," he said. He watched Kadowaki pick up a clipboard that had been sitting by the desk next to his bed. She took a black pen from a breast pocket and scratched out a few words.

"My name?"

"Janet Kadowaki."

_Scratch, scratch, scratch._ Pen tip scraping against paper. Black ink flowing into indentations on white fibers. "This hardly needs to be said, but a little more care when training would be nice—and try not to break Garden regulations while you're at it. There's a reason why all training sessions are supposed to be conducted within view of an instructor, and I'm not exaggerating when I say you're liable to receive some form of punishment for this. You two could've killed each other."

"Tell that to Seifer," he muttered. The pen-scratching halted. He felt the weight of the doctor's eyes upon him and wished he hadn't spoken. It would've been better to just let her go on and on. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Unfortunately for all of us, Seifer doesn't listen to anyone," she said. "My advice: just ignore him. I hope you know that he _wants_ to goad you." She took in his silence and snorted. "I see—you want to be cool. Is that it? Well, don't get hurt in the process."

All those assumptions. As if any of them even knew anything about him. "Whatever."

Another awkward pause. "Who's your instructor again?"

A beat. "Quistis."

"I'll call her to pick you up. Wait here."

Where else could he wait anyways? Squall threw up an arm to block out the light as he heard Kadowaki quit the room. Great, Quistis—just who he needed. She would nag at him for getting wounded and then badger him about _why_ he had done something this rash to get wounded. Always those _why_ questions that made him want to escape from her presence. And when she steered the conversation to his feelings, he just wished that she would stop talking. Not that she ever did.

Kadowaki's voice crept in from the other room: "Quistis? Come get your student…Yes, yes. The injury's not too serious, though it'll leave a scar…He's lost a lot of blood due to the head wound…No, there'll be no problems…Right—now please come by."

A click as the doctor hung up the phone. Footsteps. The creak of a chair. Taps as she typed something onto her computer. Probably logging in his condition, physical and mental and who-knew-what-else. As Balamb Garden's only formally trained medical doctor, Kadowaki also served as the Garden's psychologist, a role she assumed whenever Squall set foot into the infirmary. Thankfully, she hadn't pressed him today, knowing that it would stress him out. Still, it would be best if she stopped bringing up the subject of his social isolation altogether. He _knew_ what he was doing, and he had told her that much once. Unsurprisingly, she hadn't believed him.

"Squall?"

Who was that? Squall jerked his head about to look though the glass window into the neighboring sickroom where a young woman stood grinning at him. White skirt. Sky-blue top. Long green cloth draping over her arms. She was half-standing, half-kneeling down with her hands on her knees as she tried to get a good look at him. Her grin widened when she noticed that she had caught his attention.

"Long time no see," she said.

Squall blinked. Long time no see? Had they met before? When and under what circumstances? The questions ate at him. "Do I know you?" he asked, frowning.

"You don't remember me?" The woman's joyful expression faded. "Oh, sorry. I thought—" She cut herself off. Ran a slender hand through her wispy brown hair. "I thought you would remember me."

"I might—"

"No, it's all right. I won't take up any more of your time." Her face lit up again, but this time her smile seemed a little forced. "Maybe I'll see you again and we can share stories. I think I'd like that. Bye, Squall."

"Wait," he said, trying to push himself into a seated position—but the woman was already gone. As ethereal as a summer's breeze, she glided away.

Squall lay back down on his cot. Stared at nothing. Wondered who she was, what she was doing here, how she had recognized him. A lingering scent drifted into his room: apples and cherry blossoms. Perfume.

---

Quistis Trepe fell back in her chair and allowed a smile to light up her face as she hung up the phone. Both her students were fine—maybe cut up a bit, but fine. Seifer had left the infirmary hours ago, his junctions having quickened the healing process; and now Squall was awake, coherent, and according to Janet, fit enough to participate in the Field Exam if necessary. Which, of course, it was.

She dropped her pen, stood up, and stretched her arms over her head with a yawn. Her lower back ached; for the better part of the day, she had been sitting at her desk grading tests or assigning squads for the Field Exam—and worrying herself sick over her two students' conditions. It was a nice feeling to finally be done with all three of her tasks. Still, she reminded herself sternly, she had to take some disciplinary actions with them; they couldn't go unpunished. But surely that could wait until after the Exam. Today was stressing enough without having the detentions to top it all off.

With a last sip of coffee from her steaming mug, she breathed a sigh and quitted the classroom.

The corridors were unusually empty today due to the looming Exam, and she found herself enjoying the near silence of the hallways as she made her way to the second-floor elevator. Her high heels clicked against the floor. Echoed off the walls. The rushing sound of the air flowing through the vents. The plash of water. She thought back to the time right before her own Exam three years ago. What had she been doing? Oh yes, reading a conduct manual in order to calm her nerves. It hadn't helped in the least, she recalled with a dry quirk of the lips. It, however, was undoubtedly a better way to waste time than lying in an infirmary all morning as Squall had done.

Squall. There was no avoiding the fact, though she had struggled with it for several years: she was infatuated. She hadn't acted on her feelings so far, as that would have violated the Garden's policy on student-teacher relationships, but maybe once he became a SeeD…

With a vengeance, Quistis shoved the tantalizing notion away. He hadn't even passed the prerequisite yet! There was no use getting her hopes up now. But he'd pass the Exam; if he couldn't do it, surely no one else could. Except maybe Seifer.

Reaching the elevator, she punched the button marked with the down-arrow and waited. Tapped her shoe. Minutes passed. They had one elevator in the entire Garden, and it was amazing that anyone could get anywhere on time. Maybe she should try to persuade Cid to install another one—but not now so soon after her failure. She winced; Squall and Seifer were both under her supervision, and it had been entirely her fault for letting the two get injured. Yes—entirely her fault no matter how she looked at it.

And speak of the devil. The elevator doors had slid open with a _ding_ and right inside stood the Balamb Garden headmaster.

"Quistis," Cid said with a nod and a warm smile, "good day so far?"

Quistis stiffened but returned the greeting. "I've had better days, sir," she replied, "though it's improving." She stepped into the elevator and the doors shut moments later.

"First floor?" he asked and without waiting for an answer, pressed the round button. Quistis noticed that B1 was also lit, but before she could inquire after it, he said: "Yes, yes—I heard about the accident this morning. They're well, I trust?"

"Yes, as well as can be. Janet assured me that both of them can take the Field Exam."

"Good. It'd be a shame to lose both of our gunblade specialists just because they were confined to the infirmary."

At his tone, guilt washed over her. "I'm sorry. It's my fault—I'll be taking full responsibility for their actions—"

Cid laughed, and she looked up to find his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. Her anxiety lessened a little, the tension easing out of her shoulders. "Well, no lasting harm's been done, and I must say that I'm surprised you've kept this from happening earlier. It's still entirely your fault for letting those two go at each other in that manner, of course"—here his eyes hardened—"and I trust you won't let this pass under your gaze again."

"No, sir," Quistis said, ducking her head. The elevator slowed and came to a halt. The doors opened. She stepped out.

"And, now, you must be off," Cid said. "I hope to see both of them passing the Exam this afternoon."

And before she could answer, the doors once again shut.

---

A _whirr_ of hidden contraptions. A hiss of air. Squall recognized Quistis's gait from her footsteps and steeled himself for the coming confrontation. Indistinct whispers traveled through the open door into his room as his instructor and Kadowaki held a hushed discussion, likely relating to his health, and then he heard Quistis approach his bed, her high heels clicking against the floor.

A break in the rhythm. An exasperated sigh. "Wasn't a very good idea to go off trying to kill each other on the day of the Field Exam, was it?"

"Whatever," he muttered. Had she really needed to remind him of that?

"Come on, let's go. Homeroom'll be starting soon."

At those words, Squall levered himself up, slid his legs off the bed, and stood. The room darkened. Tilted dangerously. He blinked. Reached out a hand for support. Instead, he felt someone grab his arm.

Immediately, he stiffened and jerked away from Quistis's touch, slamming into the wall and almost falling over the chair. With a glare, he straightened and snatched his gunblade from where it had been leaning and buckled it to his waist, all the while keeping an eye on his instructor, who met his gaze levelly for a few seconds before breaking away and spinning around to quit the room. He thought he saw a flash of hurt in her expression, but he couldn't be sure. And why the hell did he care anyways? She had violated his personal space.

He hastily slipped on his boots and black gloves. Following behind Quistis, he left the infirmary, reclaiming his jacket from the coat rack that stood beside Kadowaki's desk as they passed. He noted with distaste that the white fur collar was spotted with rust-colored stains. He'd have to toss it into the laundry before the SeeD Exam, preferably as soon as possible. The white shirt he had on likewise hadn't born the travails of the morning bout well, torn and discolored as it was in places. Still, he meant to wear it for the Fire Cavern Test. What would be the point of letting Ifrit tear up another shirt when this one would do just fine?

"Squall, something on your mind?"

He glanced up. Quistis had slowed so that she could fall into step beside him. He shrugged. Directed his attention at his feet. Hoped she would take the hint—but, as expected, she didn't.

"Are the floor tiles so interesting?"

He fought to keep a scowl from creeping across his features. "No."

"Well, then—you care to tell me what you're thinking about?"

A stretch of silence. _Click, click, click, click._ He tried to tune out those obtrusive footfalls, but it soon became clear that Quistis wasn't going to let the matter rest. He opened his mouth.

"Not really," they said in unison. He stopped. Turned to watch in irritation as Quistis attempted to stifle a giggle. Her efforts clearly failed when she burst out into laughter upon seeing his vexed look, and he waited impatiently for her fit to subside.

"Are you done?" Squall asked when she had finally regained control of herself. He glanced at his watch with knitted brows; they were going to be late for homeroom.

"Yes, I'm done," she said, "though I don't quite see what the crime is in being happy."

He didn't reply to this; only spun around to hasten down the hallway. Quistis quickened her pace to match his, but didn't attempt any additional conversation, for which he was thankful. Several long moments passed, and then he surprised even himself.

"I'm more complex than you think." Oh hell, why had he even opened his mouth? But the damage was done already. They both stopped, Squall mentally scolding himself while Quistis pointed at his chest with a finger.

"Then tell me more about yourself."

He brushed her hand away. "It's none of your—"

"—business?" she said, finishing his sentence for him. "See? I know you, but I don't _know_ you. How hard can it be to talk, _really _talk?"

Squall crossed his arms and looked pointedly away, directing his eyes through the window that ran the length of the hall. The courtyard outside was sunny and warm; students strolled across the grounds, their shoes scuffing up clouds of dirt and voices drifted through the thin glass. He caught himself wishing that he could be as content as those two students who were sitting on a bench holding hands and pushed the thought away in disgust.

Quistis was still standing there, waiting for a reply, her face expectant—but he crushed her hopes with a feeling of wicked satisfaction. Shrugged. Said, "Whatever." Walked away.

---

"Hey, Squall. Love the new look with the bandages. How's the scar? You like it?" Seifer Almasy laughed and stood up from his desk in the back row, sneering. "I have to thank you for this one," he said, pointing a finger at his own marred face as he moved to block the aisle; a thin scar ran down from his left temple across the bridge of his nose, just missing his right eye. "Rakish, isn't it? Though I wouldn't have it if you hadn't cheated. 'First blood,' I said."

Squall shrugged and shoved past the well-built blond in an attempt to make for his study panel, but a hand seized his shoulder. He spun around. Clenched a fist.

Seifer noticed and leaned down to whisper into his ear, gloved hand tightening: "Don't want to get in any more trouble with the instructor watching, now do you? You never know; maybe she'll bar you from the Exam. Even if she _does_ like you, she's got to follow the rules."

For an instance, Squall was sorely tempted to throw a right hook into that face just to prove Seifer wrong—but he mastered the desire. Instead, he said savagely: "The no-magic and no-trigger rules were implied. I was only returning the favor."

"Oh, so you finally see the light, eh?"

"What—"

"Good morning, class. Please be seated—and that includes you too, Seifer."

Seifer let go of Squall with a rough push. "My bad, dear Instructor," he said and returned to his seat, draping his arms along the back of the chair while Squall sat down at his own designated spot. Quistis gave the blond a long, hard look before returning her attention to the rest of the class, hands folded and resting on her desk.

"Let's start today by addressing the rumors that have been flying around since yesterday," she said, pausing as whispers filled the room. The noise died away. She continued: "Yes, the Field Exam for SeeD candidates will begin later this afternoon."

An outbreak of words from the excited students. Squall leaned his forehead into his hand and shut his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on. Why couldn't they just shut up and listen? Then all of them could be out of here that much earlier.

"Quiet down! The fewer the interruptions, the faster this'll be over!" _That_ got their attention, and a golden silence rolled over the students. Squall breathed out, his forehead throbbing. He tried to focus on Quistis's stern voice.

"Thank you. Now, those of you not participating and those who failed last week's written test are to remain here in the study hall. Everyone else has free time until the Field Exam. No cheering or you'll be in here longer.

"I've decided to let you go early so that you'll take the time to rest and prepare. But I _do not_ want to find one of you drunk on the battlefield. You're liable to end up dead, even with your junctions, and I don't want to deal with the paperwork or your parents. Meet me in the main lobby at 1600 hours for team assignments. Make sure you're decked out in your SeeD uniforms, and that should be it. Any questions?"

"Aw, so we can't choose our own teams?"

"The teams have already been chosen based on skills, so obviously no," Quistis said.

"We're not going to get any details about the Exam?"

"You'll receive a full mission briefing right before you get there. Don't worry about it. You'll all do fine." She smiled, her severe expression softening for a moment. "Any more questions? No? All right, you're all free," she said. "Oh, and Seifer?"

Seifer didn't even start at hearing the sound of his name—just sat there, relaxed with a bored look, and yawned before saying: "Yes, Instructor?"

Gazing at Quistis, Squall had the impression that he was staring at a librarian who had just heard a loud noise echoing through the confines of her sanctuary, her eyes hard and stern behind her darkly-rimmed glasses.

"Do _not_ injure your partner during training again. Do you understand?"

A flash of alarm and rage that was suppressed. But a faint bloom of heat rose in Seifer's cheeks. He straightened his back.

"Seifer. I asked if you understood."

"Yes, _Instructor._"

"Good. Field Exam participants," Quistis said, satisfied with Seifer's answer, "I will see you all later. Squall, come meet with me. I need to have a word with you."

When the classroom finally emptied, Seifer hissing empty threats into his ear, Squall approached Quistis. He knew what she was going to ask him about and sure enough—

"You haven't been to the Fire Cavern yet, have you?"

"No," Squall said.

"And you know you won't be able to take part in the Field Exam if you don't pass this prerequisite?"

"Yes."

"Any excuse?"

He felt a stab of reproach. Of course he had an excuse: Seifer. But she already knew that, and she knew that he knew that. Her eyes glittered behind her spectacles. "Not really."

"Then let's get going," Quistis said, giving him a tight-lipped smile. "Meet me at the front gate ASAP—and don't forget your GF," she added.

As if he would forget. He scoffed, watching her disappear from the classroom with three Trepies trailing after her, one of them shooting him an envious glare. Squall glowered back. God, how he hated those fans. They were too obsessed with Quistis for their own good, and he remembered how his last roommate had talked of nothing _but_ Quistis to eat up the silent hours which he spent with Squall in their shared room. Needless to say, Squall had complained to the Garden administrators—and his roommate had moved out, though Squall had a suspicion that the guy had likewise complained of _him_ and had asked to be transferred.

Nevertheless, the end result was still the same, and he was happy with it.

With a little care, Squall reached up to peel the bandages away from his face and threw them into the trashcan next to Quistis's desk with a wince, the skin feeling tight and stretched. He lightly ran his fingers along the ruined tissue. Frowned. Quitted the room with jacket slung over his shoulder.

---

"I'm late, I'm late, I'm _late_!"

Having barely left the room a few seconds ago, Squall had no time to think as _something _slammed into him. Grunting, he fell back against the wall and leaned there catching his breath.

"Oh, _no_," said the source of the disturbance, a petite girl who couldn't be much taller than five feet. Her brown hair bounced up and down as she picked herself up from the ground, lithe white fingers moving over the dark blue of her uniform to brush away specks of dust and to smooth out the wrinkles. "I'm really, really sorry. Are you all right?"

Squall, by now having regained his wind, said in a stony voice: "Yes."

"Oh," she said, put off by his tone. They stood there in awkward silence, and then she broke it timidly by saying, "Did…you just come from that room?" just as he tried to amend for his earlier rudeness with: "I'm fine, are you okay?"

They both broke off, confused. Squall didn't quite know what to make of the girl, and she didn't seem to know quite what to make of him.

"Er…yeah, I'm fine," she said at last and began repeating her question. Squall stopped her halfway through with a nod. Her face fell. "Great. First day and I'm already late," she said, eyes downcast. She scuffed a shoe and added, "This place is so much bigger than my last Garden."

Squall ventured a guess, again trying to cover for his impoliteness: "Are you an exchange student?"

"Yeah, from Trabia," she said, referring to the other Garden situated in the arctic landscape of the east continent. "I'm here for the SeeD Exam."

Squall was perplexed about how to continue, and merely stayed where he was, mind not-quite-scrambling for an answer. The uncomfortable minutes of quiet stretched out. He cleared his throat and said, "I need to get going," when the girl began a question starting with, "Well, any chance—"

Another pause. Squall could hear rushing water in the distance. The girl suddenly laughed, a vibrant tinkling sound that reminded him of light reflecting off the waters of a chattering brook winding its merry way through a sunlit forest.

"This is really awkward," she said, looking back up at him. She had green eyes. "I'm sorry, but any chance you can give me a quick tour of this Garden?"

Ordinarily, he would have refused—but Squall only swore inwardly at himself for getting involved and said: "I'm on my way down. I can show you where the directory is, but I don't have time for a guided tour."

"Great, thanks a bunch! By the way, my name's Selphie."

"Squall." They had made it to the elevator. Apparently, everyone was downstairs already, for there was no traffic and they didn't have to wait long.

The ride itself was mostly hushed. Selphie asked him once about his scar, and he gave her a curt response, his thoughts turned instead towards the coming Fire Cavern Test which he would have to take. Quistis was probably already there at the main gate, waiting for him. He'd have to make everything quick, then.

"I'm on the Garden Festival Committee," she said. The elevator had halted and they were walking down the short flight of stairs. "I'll make sure there'll be a Garden Festival this year! Hey, would you—"

"Good luck," Squall said, cutting her off, and then pointed at the flat-screened computer panel in the center of the lobby. "There's the directory. You'll be able to figure it out by yourself. I need to get going."

And he left her standing there with a bemused expression on her face as he hurried away.

* * *

**Edited 02/06/08**


	3. II: Hasty Preparations

**Disclaimer: The characters, settings, the idea, and everything in Final Fantasy 8 belong to Square-Enix. However, I do own all original characters. **

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**Fate's Game **

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**Part I: Set-up **

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**_Chapter II: Hasty Preparations_**

Golden rays filtered through large paned windows and floated into the spacious room, dousing the furnishings with a startling radiance that transformed the leaves of potted trees into glittering emeralds. Blinding white-yellow fire consumed grey bark, and the dotted shells of miniscule ladybugs clinging to pale branches sparkled like rubies embedded with obsidian eyes. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, white specks that caught the daylight and twisted and twirled in smooth eddies; they were snowflakes in the sun, petite snowflakes that _existed _only in the sun, and elsewhere, they were invisible and meaningless crumbs that were of no consequence to the universe.

It was beautiful, Jacob Ronim reflected. He watched his hand fly through a bar of sunlight, batting at the whirling dust motes, and a smile graced his face as he observed the chaos that followed in the wake of his motion. Sure, everyone was meaningless when viewed from the perspective of the whole world, but to the world of the dust motes—

"What do I need to do to get closer to thee, oh lovely Quistis?" a voice behind Jacob moaned. "Mine own heart is beating so fast. Am I in love?"

He gritted his teeth, and some not-so-nice words gathered themselves on the tip of his tongue, but he held them back, reminding himself: _You were a Trepie once too_. He grimaced. _In the past_, he added. Now he was a SeeD, with more important issues to worry about than the lovesick ramblings of a cadet or the pretty face of an Instructor.

Didn't mean that he couldn't be annoyed with them, though.

Ronim bit hard into an apple, felt the sticky juice dribble across his fingers, and shook his head. How he longed for those cadet days, when all he had had to worry about was his next test or the next bullying squad coming around to beat him up. He allowed an ironic look to creep across his face. _You've only been a SeeD for three months and you're already wishing for bullies again_. It was too early to have nostalgic thoughts. Still, if only those younger cadets would appreciate their situations…He shook his head again and continued with his one-man chess game.

_They'll feel the regret when they become SeeDs._ He moved a white knight to the forefront of the white formation.

He had brought down his prized chessboard into the cafeteria. Of course, it was only to play with himself; no one was interested in the antique war-game anymore, but he never quit hoping that someone – anyone – would come by to play chess with him. But no one ever did; a new craze was sweeping the Garden and the world: Triple Triad, a card game. The rules were so simple, whereas the rules for chess were so complex. Shallowness pitted against real depth. So why did people like Triple Triad better?

_Because they're too lazy to think. They want an easy game, a game that relies on luck without skill. _It went without saying that he still preferred the old deck of cards with the clubs, spades, hearts, and diamonds. _Even poker requires a little skill,_ he thought bitterly, despairing over the extinction of two of his favorite pastimes.

Footsteps magnified by the Garden's acoustics broke into Jacob's mind and he twisted his head about to survey the entrance, eyes following the three figures entering the cafeteria. He snorted in disgust as he recognized the cadets. It was Seifer followed by his two lackeys, Fujin and Raijin. Together they formed the disciplinary committee, a group that was supposed to keep order in the halls. And, yes, they did manage to keep order in the halls, but it was through bullying and violence. Not for the first time, Ronim wondered why they had been chosen to make up the committee.

He turned his attention back to his chess game; he had nothing to do with them, and they had nothing to do with him. _Black's turn to move._ A black bishop slid along a diagonal…

Seifer wrinkled his nose as the cloying yet salty scent of the Balamb Garden cafeteria hit him like a tidal wave. They served too much fried food here and, though he had no qualms about fried food, he had always thought that it smelled – how did one put it? – greasy. And that greasy odor permeated the atmosphere, nauseatingly slick and overbearingly heavy. He walked to the vending machines stationed by the cafeteria counter and examined the drinks that were available with a frown.

"SEIFER."

Seifer turned towards Fujin Takahashi: she was a thin woman, very lithe and very pale. An albino with short, wintry hair and an even colder complexion augmented by her chilly blue outfit. The way she held herself was militaristic, straight-backed with squared shoulders, but her manner of walking was another matter altogether: light steps with a touch of caution, like the fluttering steps of an amateur dancer on a stage. An eyepatch over her left eye gave her an almost barbaric appearance, an impression that was only reinforced by her other bloodshot eye.

"DRINK?" Fujin asked, jerking her head at the vending machines.

"Nah," Seifer replied after completing his review of the soft drinks. He leaned against the wall, elbows bracing his arched body. "Not thirsty. They don't have anything decent today anyways. All the Vitamin Water's sold out."

"Hey, can I drink somethin'? I'd like some water, ya know."

A soft snort of amusement from Jacob. He couldn't help but overhear; the man had a booming voice that carried throughout the entire food court and suddenly the entire cafeteria's population – a total of seven cadets and him – was trying to stifle giggles. It didn't help that the man who had just spoken was physically well-built. To hear such words come from such a man. Jacob chuckled silently, his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth.

Well-built: that was the one word that could describe everything about Raijin Suzuki. He seemed monstrous with his muscular arms, his broad chest, his gargantuan size; he even topped Seifer, a full six feet and two inches, in height. His tanned skin gleamed with a bronze sheen in the sunlight. All in all, he looked like a weight-lifter. Or a heavyweight boxer though there was something about Raijin's close-cut and dark-brown hair that made him fall short of the category. _Or maybe it's just that dog-eyed look in his eyes_. Yes, that was it, Jacob decided and focused again on his game. He tried to block out the background noises, but they kept creeping in, ruining his concentration.

"IGNORE," Fujin said. Loud and assertive.

And the ever-present whining of the cadet behind him: "Oh, how I love thee, Instructor Quistis. I cannot sleep at night thinking of your radiating beauty. That is why I am always falling asleep in class. Oh, how sinful you are."

_Oh hell. Shut the fuck up._

Ronim spun around in his chair and opened his mouth to speak—

The pounding of feet, the huffing of breath, and the obnoxiously hoarse voice of an intruder cut him off before he could even begin. Irritated, he glimpsed a blue blur topped by a flash of blond hair dash past him to the cafeteria counter.

"Are…there any…hotdogs…left?" the rushing student asked, out of breath as he slammed into the waist-high counter. It took Jacob a moment to recognize the student, and he wracked his brain for a name.

Zell Dincht. Ronim silently berated himself for not recalling the trainee on sight, for Zell was an…unique individual. Who else had a black tattoo reminiscent of a lightning bolt running down the left side of his face? Muscular and athletic, the blond cadet's specialty was hand-to-hand combat, a dangerous choice for a SeeD. Getting in close enough to throw punches at an enemy was a hard task, and it was even more difficult when there happened to be bullets flying all around. It didn't help that martial artists tended to die young; most did not reach their twenties. But Zell was bold almost to a fault, and the threat of early death had done nothing to dissuade him.

Jacob caught the nod that passed between the members of the disciplinary committee and winced in sympathy.

_Dincht's screwed._

"You're a bit late. We're all sold out," an elderly cafeteria lady said from underneath the counter.

A groan. "Not again…It's impossible to get any if you don't get here early."

"Well, dear, get here earlier then." Plates and glasses clinked together delicately.

"Aw, hell."

The tinkling of shattering glass and a scream: "Don't you dare curse in front of me, young man!" She stood up, and the plastic netting covering her head gave her a menacing aura. "Look what you've made me do!"

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," the blond said and added quickly, "Ma'am," when she narrowed her eyes.

"Now get outta here before I wash that mouth of your's with soap and water!" She shook a hot mitt at the terrified trainee.

"Y-yes, ma'am." He took off like lightning: there one moment, gone the next.

The cafeteria lady chuckled and shouted after him, "I'll order some more next time, though I can't guarantee you any if you don't get here earlier!" but he had already passed out of hearing.

Meanwhile, Seifer smirked at his companions. "Speeding. Let's go arrest him for violation of academy regulations."

"AFFIRMATIVE."

_Yup. He's screwed._

The disciplinary committee exited the cafeteria, boots slapping against the tiled floor as they pursued the errant cadet, nearly bowling over another intruder in their haste to seize the sprinting trainee.

A "Get outta the way, Squall!" and a "Yo, Squall!" and then they were gone, leaving behind a faintly-irritated cadet clad in a torn white shirt. A black jacket was slung over his shoulder.

The newcomer, for his credit, did not chase after them shouting obscenities that would get him in trouble with the cafeteria ladies and, most likely, in trouble with Seifer Almasy. Rather, he merely continued on with whatever task he had in mind, and Jacob found himself studying – what had Seifer called him? – Squall with an open interest.

He had heard of the cadet before: after all, there were only two people in the Garden who trained with the extraordinarily hard-to-master gunblades, and the weapon that was sheathed at the student's waist looked exactly like one of those extraordinarily hard-to-master weapons.

He watched the trainee order a regular ham and cheese sandwich and waved him over when the student was looking for somewhere to sit. A slight hesitation but the young man accepted the invitation. Jacob grinned at him as he sat down.

"You're Squall?"

A noncommittal shrug from the cadet as he unwrapped the sandwich from its plastic covering and bit into it. His chilly expression told Jacob nothing about his thoughts and Jacob had the brief image of a glass window erected between the two of them.

_Cold fish. _"I'm Jacob. Hear you're taking the SeeD exam today."

Another shrug.

"Well, in that case, good luck. You'll need it. I barely passed the SeeD exam myself," he said, and added as an afterthought, "Actually, I almost failed the Fire Cavern test, let alone the SeeD exam." He gave a tart laugh. "You've taken the Fire Cavern test, haven't you?"

"No."

"You haven't? And today's the exam? You must be pretty confident then. You've probably heard this before but Ifrit's fucking _tough_. As in, he's never been completely beaten before. Not enough for him to believe any of us worthy enough to junction him at least."

His guest didn't reply and if the information Ronim had dealt out had rattled him, he didn't show it. Instead he took another bite of the sandwich. Chewing methodically, swallowing methodically, repeating the steps over and over again. Squall's movements screamed "practical" to Jacob's senses and the SeeD, unable to quell his rising curiosity, was seized by a sudden urge to Scan the enigmatic trainee.

He knew full well the consequences if he was caught: imprisonment for life in a maximum security jailhouse. It was illegal to Scan another SeeD; Garden regulations expressly forbid it. Privacy was a value to be cherished, and to invade that privacy…

_Curiosity killed the cat, eh?_ And, besides, he almost always landed on his feet when he fell.

Reassured, he nudged the alien presence in his mind, and it awakened. A single word of command, and then tendrils of color filled the air, made visible by his Guardian Force's power.

He reached for the fine filaments and molded them to his will, hoping that Squall was not junctioned. If the cadet did turn out to be junctioned, then he was going to be, for lack of a better word, fucked. There was no way to hide a Scan spell from a Guardian Force, and no one ever attempted to, for Guardian Forces were specially attuned to the states of their hosts' minds. The barest stroke would awaken sirens in the receiver's brain, and then all would be over.

He bound the tendrils together into a needle, and sent it forth, navigating it, willing it to the right, the left, holding it steady and moving it forward. The line that followed after the probe reminded him of a ghostly sewing needle with its thread still attached, and it was just as fragile, he understood.

For what seemed like hours, he gave his entire attention to the spell. Sweat beaded below his hairline, and he thanked God that the droplets did not travel down his face. Normally, he wouldn't have spent so much time and effort to Scan a person; on the battlefield, it took him two seconds, but now he had to be more cautious, more careful, infinitely subtler.

Finally, his probe reached its target, and it brushed its tip across Squall's mind, as lightly as a summer's breeze. He stiffened, expecting an outburst from the student. But nothing, and he knew then that the other man wasn't junctioned. He pressed forward with his investigation.

_There._

He touched the center of Squall's being and let the knowledge flow over him, into him, and he suddenly became _aware_.

Practicality, reasoning, cold observance, an analytical detachment, calculated thoughts, a stable confidence in learned skills. And tingeing it all was an icy indifference affected by an innate pragmatic nature. He was _precise_ to a fault, it seemed.

The SeeD dug further, drilled deeper. And he caught a feeling of _something_ underneath before a floodgate slammed down behind him, and the carefully-crafted line froze and shattered.

Jacob jerked his head up and looked into grey eyes.

"Don't do that again." Toneless and foreboding. Squall's voice sent shivers through Jacob, and he didn't need to Scan the cadet to know that he valued his privacy intensely, so intensely that he had isolated himself from the rest of the world. But that wasn't the only reason. He knew the other, had gleaned it before he'd been locked out by metal bars.

"Sorry. "You won't tell?" he said with raised eyebrows, even though he already anticipated the answer. Squall wouldn't tell. His pride wouldn't allow it and the single-minded need for solitude would make it psychologically impossible for any part of this event to travel beyond the two of them. To acknowledge a weakness was to make himself more vulnerable, and vulnerability would carry with it the concept of having to rely on others for support, for confidentiality, for security.

Squall shrugged and finished the rest of his sandwich. He started to stand up when Jacob said, "You fancy a game of chess with me?"

"I need to take the Fire Cavern test," Squall said. Hostility smoldered in his gaze.

"How 'bout later, then? After the SeeD Field Exam or in between the Fire Cavern and the Field Exam?"

"Whatever."

Jacob watched him depart, and laughed. He'd found a chess player alright; he'd discovered that much from the Scan.

He had also discovered one other private fact about the trainee, a fact that Squall might have killed him for unearthing if the cadet had truly known the depth to which Jacob had gone during his "expedition":

Somewhere behind that chilly shell, something had broken. A long time ago, granted, but the hairline cracks were still there and one strong and well-placed blow could bring the glass wall crashing down. And Squall knew it; he denied it, but he _knew_ that it would come someday, some event or person or thing would shatter the window.

_Checkmate, Leonhart._ Jacob touched two fingers to his head and saluted the retreating back of the trainee; not the SeeD salute, but the salute of the past, when one man would defer to another in respect. _Checkmate._

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"Student No. 41269?"

Squall glanced up reflexively at the recitation of his Garden-ID Number and it registered in his anger-clouded mind that he had kept Quistis waiting for fifteen minutes already. He spared a moment to curse silently before answering.

"Sir?"

Dressed in long, flowing robes of red and white and topped by yellow, saucer-like hats that concealed their faces, the members of the Garden Faculty had gained a negative reputation in the Garden during their stay, no doubt due to their heavy-handed ways of dealing with insubordination, and the intimidation and bullying they employed when trying to keep order in the halls. Anyone caught running was sent to detention and those who happened to be wandering around without a pass suffered a similar fate. Items were taken, never to be seen again, and disrespect earned one a black mark on a disciplinary roster. The list went on, and as it did so, most of the violations became more and more trivial, until it was trivial to the point of absurdity.

And, unsurprisingly, rumors had begun floating around, some even going as far to suggest that the Faculty members were aliens from outer space.

Squall personally dismissed that theory, though he himself held that they weren't humans. Why else would they completely conceal their entire bodies, even in the murderous heat of summer and spring?

"Your name is Squall?" The Faculty member scowled and continued without waiting for a reply: "You're that problem child, aren't you?"

Squall fought against the urge to shrug. "Yes, sir."

"Don't you have the final SeeD exam today?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you're making Instructor Trepe wait!" The gravely voice turned into a high-pitched whine. "What are you still doing here? Get down there at once!"

"Yes, sir."

"And don't let me catch you running!"

"Sir." Squall said, and hurried off as fast as possible. Yes, he'd been keeping Quistis waiting, but he still had to finish his preparations. That talk in the cafeteria had taken too long; he could have eaten on the way to his room.

And then the food would have been confiscated by the Garden Faculty.He grimaced. Unavoidable.

Jacob's Scanning inevitably nibbled on the edges of his mind, but he shoved it out again before it could take hold. He didn't have the time, and he needed to have his head completely clear for the Fire Cavern test; pure fury would do him no good right when he needed to think rationally. Hell, the SeeD probably didn't gain much from the Scan anyways.

Still: _Who the _fuck _gave him the right to do that and why the hell did he do it if he knew it could get him in trouble?_

A cold sweat abruptly broke out on his face as Paranoia whispered into his ear, soft and seductive: _Did Seifer bribe him? To dig out some weakness to use against me?_

He would confront the SeeD later, though what he planned to do at the confrontation, he didn't know. What he did know was that, right now, he had to focus, he had to concentrate, and that meant that he could give this matter no thought whatsoever. The slightest distraction could cost him a SeeD placement.

He turned right at the corner and proceeded to his room, his mind full of grey storm clouds.

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The room appeared bare even in the dark, an unusual occurrence: after all, it is within the darkness that the imagination conjures up images of monsters, of nightmares, of objects and people to fill the emptiness but, in this place, the floor's toothless maw gaped wide like an abyss. It sucked in light and let none escape, sucked in dreams and decimated them, ripping them to shreds and then swallowing even those frayed rags of color. Pressed against the walls were the few things that had managed to escape the black hole, and it seemed as if they were spared only because they were the guardians, the watchers of the room.

And then the light flickered on. Footsteps stalked across the room to a veiled window and Squall raised the blinds, flooding the room with sunlight. The chasm was revealed to be ordinary green carpet. The gargoyles and guard statues that stood against the walls turned into simple furnishings: a low bed, a desk with a lone lamp upon it, a bookshelf in a corner filled with thickset volumes, and an oblong case about four-feet long. Nothing adorned the walls.

Squall peered around and unbuckled his gunblade sheath, tossing it onto the bed. He had dropped his jacket off already at the laundry room on his way here, meaning that it would be done washing by the time he made it back to the Garden. He could throw it in the dryer before the SeeD exam; after all, he wouldn't need it if he was wearing the SeeD uniform.

He turned his attention to the case that was propped up against his desk. It was a regal thing, emblazoned with a silver lion's head on its cover – he had a copy of the emblem hanging off a silver chain around his neck, in fact – and made out of a durable black leather. Silver on black, stylishly sinister.

Squall carried the case to his bed and set it down before unlatching the locks spaced along its side. Silver on black. He pushed the edges apart at the crack and then unsheathed Lionheart to examine it for blemishes. Finding none on the immediate exterior, he reached for the tattered towel in the case – it was soaked with gunblade oil – and ran it along the length of the silver blade until the wears of the battle and the weather had disappeared, until he could see his reflection in the metal.

He checked the mechanical clock hanging above his door. Twenty minutes. But nothing could be done about it, so he continued with his weapon's check, swinging out the revolver's cylinder to dump out the ammo and scrutinizing the interior. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, he reloaded the ammo, pushed the cylinder back in, resheathed Lionheart, and rebuckled the sheath to his left hip before bending down to remove the gray foam coating the inside of the case. Two folded Emerson knives glinted in the rays of sunlight as he stuck one into his boot, and strapped the other to his waist.

He snapped the gunblade case shut and traveled over to his desk, where he searched through the drawers for a small firearm: a backup weapon should he lose his gunblade in the skirmish, however unlikely that could be. He fastened the holstered gun to his belt.

A final glance about the room as he ran through a mental checklist in his mind. Then he pulled on his gloves, which he had retrieved from his jacket pockets, and exited, shutting and locking the door behind him with his keycard.

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The Training Center was located in the Garden's westernmost wing and it was, as its creative name implied, an enclosed training ground for the Garden's cadets. An indoor environment overrun by a variety of lethal monsters, it was a miracle that no one had ever died in the artificial jungle. Many students, however, had been severely injured before, the worst being a trainee who had lost his arm to the jaws of a T-Rexaur two years ago. He had been killed in action during his SeeD exam a short while afterwards; SeeD was not a group that could tolerate handicaps or weaknesses, and it hadn't surprised anyone when news of his death had reached the Garden. A funeral had been held, a message had been sent to his family, and life in the military academy had gone on as usual. Death was natural, a process that the Balamb students dismissed as inconsequential.

It was, after all, the survival of the fittest.

The average life expectancy for a SeeD was a mere twenty-four years. The students usually had a decade to get used to the concept of early death. Most died in the field. Others committed suicide; it was never an easy thing to see a friend's head get blown off by a stray bullet.

Nevertheless, none of these risks had ever kept Squall from wanting to become a SeeD, and he gave them little thought now as he headed for the Junction Chamber.

He cut to the left and entered the passage connecting the Training Center to the main lobby. Halfway down the corridor was a steel door situated along the left wall, and Squall halted before it, his eyes glancing over the electronic number pad that was embedded into the metal. He punched in his Garden-ID Number, and the door swung in, unaccompanied by the usual hisses and whirrs of mechanical contraptions.

Cold air flowed out, and Squall shivered as he proceeded down the revealed hallway.

The chamber beyond seemed out of place in the military academy; some said that it was more like an aquarium than an actual room in the Garden, and they were right in a sense. The walls were painted a solid dark blue, though the square paneling beneath could still be seen if one looked closely enough, and miniature glass display cases lined the walls in neat intervals. The sound of rushing water could be heard through the thick walls, soft like a distant waterfall; it was the only noise present, excluding the tread of Squall's boots on the porcelain floor tiles.

But there was an odd feeling about the Junction Chamber that didn't connect with the tranquility of an aquarium: an underlying sense of aggression that threatened to burst without warning like a pent-up volcano. Jagged, crystalline shadows flitted across the floor, wavering violently as if they had some evil intent and a strained tension charged the air.

It was otherworldly to feel such hostility emanate from such a cloister. Yet, it was no surprise. The Junction Chamber belonged to the avatars of the Guardian Forces – even confined, they could affect the world around them – and the natures of the godlike beings were shrouded in mystery. Who knew what the deities were thinking, what they were like? Research on them had ground to a halt several years earlier and, in the end, it had but peeled off the outermost layer of an onion, leaving hundreds of indecipherable skins underneath.

The wavering lights on the ground fluctuated as Squall neared one of the glass displays. Within it was a flawed, but beautiful quartz orb. It had a dark and smoky quality like obsidian, but there was a transparency about it that ruled out volcanic glass from its makeup. Occasional whorls of white broke the smooth black exterior, slicing through it like a fin through the surface of a still lake, and deep within the depths of the stone was an ever-flickering light that proclaimed _power_. Power, in its most raw form: pure and uncontaminated energy.

Squall pulled a glove off his right hand and slid his keycard through the card-reader that was set into the wall to the right of the glass. A piercing beep told him to proceed.

"Leonhart, Squall. Four-one-two-six-nine."

Another beep and the glass retracted upwards, sliding into a hidden sheath with a _schnik_ and locking into place. The light within the orb grew more feral as Squall reached out his hand towards it, and it almost seemed as if the orb was trembling on its stand.

His hand grazed the cool crystal and all activity ceased within the orb's depths; the light was extinguished and, abruptly, yellow tendrils reached out from the orb and grasped Squall's forearm hesitantly, testing it, probing it before melting into his flesh.

He inhaled sharply as the alien sensation flowed into his body; he had never gotten used to the invasive presence. A dizzying sensation overcame him and he leaned heavily against the wall to keep himself from falling. Another faint _schnik _told him that the glass case had closed.

"_Leeeeonhaaart?"_ It was a thought that resonated within the confines of his head, dry and raspy like static. Shimmering wings of gold and beryl unfolded in his mind's eye, individual feathers crackling with electricity and glowing with a moonlike luminosity. A head inset with glittering eyes of topaz reared up, and a garnet-red tongue flicked out of a toothless mouth, tasting the air, tasting the mind.

"_Quetzalcoatl."_ Squall shut his eyes tightly, trying to concentrate through the nausea of junctioning. The golden entity shifted, sending a shudder racing through his body.

"_Whhhyy haaavee yoouuu caaaallllled?"_

"_You know."_ Of course the Guardian Force knew; he was inside Squall's head, could read all of Squall's thoughts.

A painful scratch across the surface of his brain, and Squall winced. _"Veeeerrryy weeeelll, Leeoooonnhaaaarrt,"_ and the feathered serpent retreated, ducking his head under a wing.

The spinning stopped, the lightheaded feeling faded, and Squall opened his eyes, swallowing to dispel the stuffiness in his head brought on by Quetzalcoatl's inhabitation of his mind. He still felt queasy, as always, but he forced himself to stand clear of the wall.

The effects of junctioning were immediately apparent. The muffled sound of water was gone; it was increased a thousand-fold and, underneath it all, he could hear the air traveling from the air vents in the ceiling. The weariness he had felt before had all but disappeared, and was replaced by an acute alertness; the most inconspicuous movements could not escape his notice. He could see clearer, could move faster, could catch the scent of chlorine in the water-system. He no longer noticed the weight of his gunblade and its sheath. He was rejuvenated.

And he could see the magic that saturated the air: indefinite wisps of color that hovered in front of his vision, forming shapes that dissolved almost as soon as they materialized.

Magic: the lifeblood of the world. It was inherent, had always been present in the earth, in the water, in the air. It seeped out of the ground like blood out of a wound through the ley lines that crisscrossed over the surface of the planet, permeating the atmosphere until even those who were unjunctioned could occasionally catch sight of the ethereal tendrils out of the corner of their eyes. Intersection points among the ley lines produced brilliant geysers of magic that showered over the environment, and it was not uncommon for plant life to grow well alongside the magical focal points.

Squall blinked a few times to get used to his enhanced vision; some students allowed their Guardian Forces to "slumber" in order to dismiss the strands of magic, which often proved to be distractive, but Squall had forced himself to endure the sight of the ever-moving filaments long ago and he no longer took much notice of them except when he was newly-junctioned. Then, the sharp contrast between the two sights made it impossible for anyone to ignore the differences.

Another shake of his head, and Squall departed from the Junction Chamber, accidentally shouldering another trainee aside in his haste.

A polite but impatient murmur: "Sorry," and he stepped past the newcomer before the latter could respond.

As the heavy steel door swung shut behind Squall, a loud and resounding crash echoed throughout the hallway, accompanied by a swear:

"Shit!"

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Quistis gave him a stern look as he approached the front gate.

"That was half an hour, Squall."

He shrugged, and Quistis suppressed a sigh of frustration. He never let anything get to him. Stoic and unyielding, he was the immovable object. And she…she was _not_ the irresistible force. She truly doubted that anything or anyone in the world could be an irresistible force when it came to Squall.

"Are we going to get going?" His voice snapped Quistis out of her reverie and she started.

"This way," she said, and led them towards a dappled green vehicle parked before the Garden entrance.

The armored personnel carrier was the milltary academy's primary source of transportation around Balamb Island. Lightly armored with quality aluminum and sporting a swiveling .50 cal M2 Browning machine gun, it was designed as a means to transfer passengers to and from the field of battle while under gunfire, and it achieved its purpose so well that, a decade after its invention, it was still left unmodified.

They climbed into the vehicle and, as Quistis started up the engines, Squall heard Quetzalcoatl whisper eagerly into his mind:

"_IIIfffffrriiittt."_

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**Edited. **


	4. III: Road to Hell

**Disclaimer: The characters, settings, the idea, and everything in Final Fantasy 8 belong to Square-Enix. However, I do own all original characters. **

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**Fate's Game **

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**Part I: Set-up **

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_**Chapter III: Inferno**_

Quistis inhaled as she stepped out of the vehicle, breathing in the scent of ash and smoke. Her eyes burned from the grit floating in the air, and, cursing, she fought down a cough. She should've known by now to keep her breaths shallow when she was here. How many trips had she taken to this forsaken place already? Twenty? Thirty?

Blinking, she pushed a damp strand of hair out of her face. Already sweating…She'd barely been out of the car for a full minute. But it was so stuffy here—the air was so still; no breeze blew across the land to provide any relief, and she could feel the heat emanating from the ground through the thick soles of her boots. She spared a moment to thank whatever god there was that she had changed out of her formal SeeD uniform into her more casual wear – a light orange blouse with detached sleeves the color of maroon, a skirt the same shade as the blouse, and a dark pair of trousers beneath the skirt - before meeting Squall at the front gate. She pulled the zipper of her blouse down a bit further, unmindful of her modesty; it was too _warm. _

Her glasses were fogging up from the humidity. Frowning, she tore them off her face and tossed them back into the car, closing the door. The world immediately became a blur of colors and indistinguishable shapes, and she awakened the Guardian Force dwelling within her psyche. An instant later, her vision sharpened as Shiva enhanced her senses. The ever-present threads of magic in the air materialized. A small bit of manipulation, and the atmosphere suddenly felt, to her at least, cooler and less oppressive. Wonderful. The beads of perspiration dried on her forehead. She sighed in satisfaction, a smile tickling her lips.

An abrupt scuffing sound made her turn. She watched as Squall slammed the car door shut behind him. He was also sweating, she noticed; the white – actually, now it looked grey from the soot – cloth of his torn shirt was turning transparent, and she marveled at the outlines of his hard muscles...

_Stop it, stop it, stop it._

She ripped her eyes away from his body to look at his face. He was gazing off into the distance, and, following his gaze, she found him staring at the cliff wall before which she had parked the personnel carrier. She could make out the two Garden Faculty members who stood there at the base, guarding the entrance to the Fire Cavern, a cave that shone with an eerie red light.

"That's the Fire Cavern," Squall said. Quistis glanced back at him. He was fingering the chain hanging off his gunblade handle. A sign of nervousness.

"Yes, it is." She paused. Should she ask him? She hadn't dared during their silent fifteen minute car ride, and she knew how possessive he could be. Still, she had to try. "Squall, you know that Ifrit's a fire-based GF."

"I know." He shrugged.

"Don't you think Shiva'll be of more use to—"

"—no—"

"—you than Quetzalcoatl?"

"_No_."

Quistis clenched her jaw. Couldn't he see that she was trying to help him? "You haven't gone up against a Guardian Force before, and I'm not going to kid you: _they are strong_. You're going to need every possible advantage you can get."

"I'll be fine."

She opened her mouth and closed it again when he shot her a look. He wasn't going to listen, no matter what she said. Not for the first time, she felt frustrated. Frustrated and irritated and _why couldn't he just let her help him_?

But she kept her aggravation bottled up inside, where he couldn't sense it. "Fine," she said, turning away. "Let's move out."

Squall's hesitation betrayed his surprise, and she had to feel a small thrill of triumph from that. He had expected her to keep insisting on him to take Shiva. Well, let him be surprised, show him that he still didn't have _her_ figured out. And besides—she'd feel more comfortable with the ice deity. Let him deal with the heat of the cave; it was his own decision and he had to face the consequences. "Come on, Squall."

They picked their way through the treacherous terrain, and approached the rock face. The Faculty members straightened as they neared.

"Halt," one of the two staff members said, his voice gravelly and rough beneath his yellow hat. Squall and Quistis stopped, and saluted—right hands upraised, palms facing towards their own faces—and dropped their hands back to their sides. "Are you here to take the Fire Cavern Test?"

Squall nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Name and number."

"Leonhart, Squall. Four-one-two-six-nine."

"And your SeeD support."

Quistis stepped forward and saluted again. "Trepe, Quistis. Instructor Number Fourteen."

The other Faculty member spoke up, addressing Squall: "Very well, then. I'm sure that you know the risks involved, as well as the objective of this test. You are to defeat the Guardian Force Ifrit in battle and, if possible, junction him. Be aware that, if you do manage to obtain his allegiance, he is not yours and may be given away to any other cadet in the Garden upon your return."

"Sir."

"You are given a total of forty minutes to complete this task. Your SeeD support is there to support you in battle until you reach Ifrit, whom you must fight on your own. She cannot aid you in anything else, meaning that you will have to make your own decisions regarding your pacing, the direction you go in, et cetera without her council. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"The clock will begin as soon as you enter the Fire Cavern. Are you ready?"

Quistis felt, rather than heard, Squall take a deep breath. "I am ready."

The two Faculty members nodded to one another and stood aside to flank the entrance. The cave gaped open, like a mouth waiting to swallow them whole, the stalactites hanging from the ceiling resembling bloodstained teeth.

"You may enter."

Another deep breath. This time Quistis shared Squall's apprehension.

And then they plunged straight into Hell.

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As Squall stepped into the Fire Cavern, he had to prevent himself from recoiling away from the heat. He could physically _feel_ it settling over him like a suffocating blanket, and the shallow breaths he took didn't quite seem adequate enough, especially with the heavy stink of sulfur hanging in the air. The stench was much more powerful than it had been outside. Sweat rolled over his face and down his back, but he forced himself to take a step forward. The crunch of gravel underfoot. He unsheathed Lionheart, the blade ringing as it scraped against the scabbard.

Before him ran a single long and twisting path surrounded by flowing magma and composed of red igneous rock. He could tell that it had once been a part of the lava flow, but somehow, time or an outside force—perhaps Ifrit—had altered it so that it had become a trail that led deeper into the cave. Squinting, he tried to make out its length, but it was difficult to do so considering the dimness of the light, and he gave up. He would find out soon enough, he figured, proceeding down the trail, stepping between the stalagmites that jutted up from the ground. Behind him, Quistis's footsteps were loud enough for him to hear over the noise of the sluggish magma.

They walked for some short distance before she spoke up: "You know…"

"What?" Squall wiped away a drop of perspiration from his forehead, peering ahead for a threat or a fork in the road.

"The boys often choke on this test when I come with them."

A shrug. "Good for them."

"I guess my charm makes them nervous."

He froze. Was she implying what he thought she was implying? "Whatever," he muttered under his breath and picked up his pace once again, deciding to ignore her comment.

Quistis must've heard him, because she immediately said: "Hey, loosen up a bit. I was kidding. Just trying to keep you relaxed, that's all."

"Am I supposed to be relaxed?" he murmured.

She didn't answer—apparently, she had discerned the note of tension in his voice— and Squall quietly thanked the gods for hushing her. The trail grew rougher beneath his boots, rocky ruins blocking the path. They climbed over them, and gradually, he became aware that they were going _down._ Down, down, down into Hell, past the point of no return…

He shook himself. He had to stop thinking like that. Fear was his worst enemy, the one that was always waiting behind the corner. It made his hand tremble, made his peripheral vision disappear, made his strokes clumsy, made his feet tangle up, and a million other mistakes that he couldn't afford when every little move he made mattered to his final score. Even if he was one point off the cut-off, he wouldn't make it. And he had to; there was no other alternative.

_Seifer…_How had his rival done? He strained to remember. Not too shabbily, if his memory could be trusted. The blond had sauntered into the dorm hall, with a statement along the lines of: "It was easy. The brute couldn't touch me." Squall could recall how he had been tempted to ask his rival if he had junctioned Ifrit. Of course, the answer was no, and in the end, he hadn't questioned Seifer. That would have been childish and petty.

He shook off the thoughts of Seifer and quickened his pace. How much time had passed already? He pulled a watch out of his pocket, glanced at it, put it back in. Ten minutes. So he had at least half an hour left. Long enough for him to defeat Ifrit and retrace his steps back to the entrance. At least, he hoped it was sufficient. The gossip around the Garden had suggested that the test hadn't been too lengthy, and if Seifer could manage it, he could as well. He strode forth with a new determination, confident in his own aptitude.

However, as the distance between them and the cavern entrance grew, a sense of uneasiness slowly settled over Squall. They were being watched, he was sure, being watched by eyes. Cunning eyes, intelligent eyes that calculated their strengths and weaknesses. Not the eyes of mindless beasts. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Squall blinked some sweat out of his eyes and tightened his grip on Lionheart.

"_Iffffrrrittt, brrotherrr."_

He stiffened. _Could_ it be Ifrit? he wondered, shivering as he heard the long, drawn-out syllables. For some reason, they put him on edge. Quetzalcoatl was a Guardian Force of little words, and didn't speak unless absolutely necessary. Something was wrong. Stopping, he held up a hand. Quistis came to a halt behind him.

Up ahead, the trail wound on, leading into another cave cut into a wall of the cavern. Squall stared at it. Two pinpoints of light in the shadows, flickering on and off, on and off. He took a step forward, and they disappeared. Turning his head to the side, he gave Quistis a small nod, and together, they approached the opening, Squall holding Lionheart before him in a two-handed grip, Quistis wrapping her fingers around the chain whip belted to her right hip. Squall brushed the foreign presence in his mind, preparing for an attack.

As they drew near the gap, Squall thought he could make out words carved into the wall to the right of the opening, but when he tried to read them, they were unintelligible. _Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate_, they read. What could they mean?

"_Abandon all hope, ye who enter here_," Quistis said. Squall turned. At the sight of his raised eyebrows, she added, "That's what it means. It's been there for as long as I remember. A short while after Garden was established, Cid brought in a few linguists to transla—"

A guttural snarl was their only warning. Squall spun around, and watched as a monster bounded out of the gloom, its flame-tipped tail swishing behind it as it rushed at them with a roar. He reacted, throwing himself to the side and bringing Lionheart up in a wide arc. A flash of steel, glittering orange in the firelight. The thud of metal cutting through flesh. He jerked the blade loose before it could be torn out of his hand by the fiend's momentum. Blood splattered everywhere, steaming as it met the cave floor, hollowing out indentations in the rock, and hot liquid ran down his arms, scarring his skin. A tang of iron in the air.

Over the rush of blood in his ears, he heard a sharp crack followed by a bellow of pain, and then shrill screeches coupled with the _flap-flap_ of wings filled the air. The noise—it had woken the other monsters! Squall cursed and twisted his head to see Quistis jerking her whip away from the fiend; the whip's metal tip was colored crimson."Above you!" he shouted.

And then the world was drowned out by the black bodies of bloodthirsty imps.

He readjusted his grip, now holding Lionheart in his right hand, and slashed at the closest monster. It fell away, squealing in pain as its purple entrails poured out of the lower half of its severed body. With his left hand, Squall pointed at another winged shape and bound the magical filaments floating in the air together, using his will to shape it into a block of ice. A second and he dropped it; it landed with a thud, crushing the fiend. The snap of breaking bones. Another slice at a flying imp; a black-and-red wing tumbled to the ground, twitching. But whenever he killed one, another rose to take its place; they were innumerable and persistent, and he didn't have the _time_.

"Quistis!" he roared, swiping at the chittering creatures to keep them at bay. Miniscule sharp teeth sank into his forearm, and he wrenched his arm away, throwing the fiend to the ground. A stab. The silver blade covered in dark blood. "Quistis!" he called again. Where _was_ she? He could summon Quetzalcoatl to take out all the monsters in one go, but not while he was under attack. The summoning required too much concentration, too much energy. He grabbed the ethereal threads again and, with minimal focus, sent a weak electrical surge shooting through the pack of fiends. They withdrew, wary of the new power. One more shout: "Quistis!"

"Here!" and then she was beside him, chain whip in hand. Blood trickled from a wound on her scalp, and her blonde hair was matted and disheveled, but she seemed fine overall.

"I'm going to summon Quetzalcoatl!" he yelled over the noise.

"Go for it! I'll do my best to keep them off!" Fragile strands wove together into a net as Quistis concentrated on creating a Barrier, and a translucent shield emerged, shimmering with rippling colors. Spotting movement out of the corner of his vision, Squall ripped his eyes from the spell; the monsters had begun to approach again in a single solid mass. Chatters and clicks. A quick nod to Quistis, and he retreated a few feet to give her more room to use her weapon.

Squall took a deep breath as the first of the creatures smashed against the Barrier. The thump of a body striking a hard surface. Shutting the clamor out, he concentrated on the being that was coiled around his brain and _called_, praying for an answer from the Guardian Force. There was silence, complete silence during which his heart pounded in his chest, his blood rushed in his ears, and sweat poured into his closed eyes. He was hovering on the edge of a precipice with the wind buffeting him from all directions, pulling at his shirt, tugging at his hair. And he prayed, prayed for the deity to come.

He jumped.

"_Quetzalcoatl!"_

A loud clap of thunder and a cry of freedom that seemed almost like a song, unfolding and undulating and, above all else, _alien_; it rang in his ears, a pure sound that echoed through the chambers of his mind, echoed through the chambers of the Fire Cavern. An uninterrupted hum that brought to mind images of an unstoppable storm, the fury of nature, and the patter of rain on dead, rotting wood that had been struck down by lightning—split open with its smoking and blackened heart laid bare—in the midst of a tempest.

And then it stopped. A lull broken only by the beats of enormous wings and the crackle of electricity. The tension and fear in the chamber were tangible; Squall could taste them, could smell them, could feel them. They were afraid.

He opened his eyes.

Mighty wings of green and yellow, complete with black foreign markings, filled Squall's vision, feathers shining with a strange radiance as the Guardian Force hovered, motionless and still as a tranquil lake. Blue lightning ran along the length of Quetzalcoatl's birdlike body, and the sharp stink of ozone filled the air, overpowering the cavern's natural sulfurous odor. A tongue flicked out of the serpent's mouth, testing the air, and Quetzalcoatl blinked slowly, as if he had been blind for many years.

Too many years, it seemed. The head snapped forward, the mouth opened, revealing a maw that was lit by writhing lightning. The imps broke free of their horror and scattered. But they couldn't escape the bolts that leapt from Quetzalcoatl's mouth no matter where they went. Squall shut his eyes against the brightness of the attack, and he caught a whiff of burning flesh. Shrieks resonated throughout the cave, the noise ricocheting off the walls, drowning in the clatter of falling rocks as the violence of Quetzalcoatl's assault knocked loose hanging stalactites. Muffled explosions, screams of pain, the sputter of lightning, the rumble of thunder.

When it had grown silent, Squall pried open his eyes again, watching as Quetzalcoatl's avatar disappeared, disintegrating into tiny motes of light that floated upwards and faded away. Charred bodies were littered around the chamber, their flesh still steaming from the heat of the lightning. Noticing movement out of the corner of his eye, Squall turned and saw Quistis stepping over a corpse. He attempted to move, but fell to his knees. Lionheart dropping out of limp hands. He was exhausted, he realized distantly. Quistis rushed to help him.

"You okay?" she asked, kneeling beside him. Squall nodded through a bout of nausea. "I should've summoned Shiva. You still have Ifrit ahead of you," Quistis added, sounding guilty.

"I'm fine." He struggled to his feet and grabbed Lionheart, stumbling a few steps forward. His legs felt as if they were made of lead.

"Here, let me." Quistis came up behind him and grabbed his arm. He was too tired to pull away, but he watched with narrowed eyes as she manipulated the strands that surrounded them, drawing them into herself. Recognizing that she was casting a Cure spell, he relaxed. A white light flowed from her fingertips to bathe over him, washing away his pain and fatigue.

"Thanks," he said as she removed her hands.

"No pro—" Her eyes widened. Squall spun around—

—and a heavy body bowled him over, throwing him to the ground. His gunblade flew out of his hand again. Razor-sharp claws dug into the flesh above his right hip. Blooming red roses on a field of snow. He gritted his teeth and wrestled with the monster as teeth flashed in the light, lunging for his throat, snapping open and shut, open and shut. Burning spittle dripping onto his shirt. Desperate, Squall reached for the Emerson knife at his waist, still holding off the beast with one hand around its throat. Unjunctioned, he would never have been able pull that off and would have been dead already.

Sweaty fingers scrabbling for the knife's hilt, pulling it out. Squall flicked it open and drove it into the soft meat beneath the monster's jaw, right above its throat. Hot blood ran down his arm in waves, and the beast pulled away, bellowing. He shoved it off, and seized his gun, which he hadn't been able to get to under the beast, but before he could discharge the bullets, three explosions rang through the air. The monster staggered to the side and collapsed, blood running from the holes shot into its neck. Starting in surprise, Squall looked up to see Quistis holstering her own gun, a grim look on her face as she offered him a hand.

"How much time do we have left?" he asked, a little out of breath as he picked himself up, ignoring her gesture, and replaced his gun. The monster's corpse lay off to the side, and he realized that it looked remarkably like a lion. A black lion with veins of red shot through its fur and a flame-tipped tail that smoldered wetly as it died. It was the monster that had attacked them at the beginning, he noticed, seeing for the first time the gash in its shoulder and the glistening wound in its neck where Quistis had injured it with her whip. His Emerson knife remained embedded in the jaw; he opted not to retrieve it, instead taking the time to cast a quick Cure spell on himself.

"Twenty to twenty-five minutes." Her voice brought him back to reality, reminding him of the situation. "You have to hurry, Squall."

Squall nodded and raked the area with his eyes to locate his gunblade. When he found it, he understood that he had been very lucky. Lionheart was lying on the edge of the path, perilously close to falling into the lava; a few more inches—centimeters, even—would have seen to the demise of his weapon. He made his way towards it and picked it up, handling it with care. "Let's go."

The ground trembled as they passed through the cavity cut into the wall. Darkness enveloped them, a darkness so thick that they couldn't see their hands in front of their faces. Cautiously, Squall wove a Fire spell and lit the gloom, holding the globe of fire in his left hand. Sure, it would give off their position to any monsters lurking behind the boulders, but Squall felt that being able to defend himself was better than fighting blind. Quistis shot him a puzzled look at his decision, but he shrugged, and she left him alone. She wasn't allowed to question his judgment, he knew.

With their path lit, Squall felt more at ease. They continued on in silence, until, at the end of the road, an exit appeared, lit with a lurid red light. He stalked through and entered into another section of the cavern with Quistis following directly behind him.

Coiling around like a snake, the path ended at the center of the chamber where it formed an island surrounded by stalagmites that rose from the ground to stab at the ceiling. A sizeable pit was positioned within the center of the rock formation, its depths filled to the rim with burning lava. There were no other exits leading out of the room; the way in was the only way out.

A weak earthquake shivered through the cavern. There was a grinding sound, like something was shifting. Squall immediately glanced back at the opening they had just come through and saw the wall melting and flowing together to form a solid rock face. Trapped! Quistis placed a hand on his shoulder. This was part of the Test, then…He braced himself. That meant that Ifrit was near.

"_Who dares to enter my domain?"_ The deep voice emanated from nowhere and from everywhere. Squall advanced closer to the pit, his jaw set.

"It is I, Squall Leonhart, and I have come to challenge you."

A bestial laugh and a snarl. _"Do you know who I am, mortal? I am Ifrit, the Guardian of Fire, made by Hyne from the smokeless flames. I am of the first race, one of the oldest of the Guardian Forces, and you, a human, _dare_ to challenge me?"_

"I do." The heat swirled around him, dry and intense.

"_Very well, then." _Ifrit snorted._ "Pray you do not regret your decision."_

A column of lava and fire shot up from the pit, and a tremor shook the cavern. Stalactites crashed down from above, landing in the molten sea with weak splashes. Squall stared in fascination, unable to tear his eyes away, and when the vibrations finally ceased, the inferno faded away to reveal the hulking shape of a colossal beast covered in short brown fur.

Ifrit voiced a low growl and lowered his head. A mane of fiery red hair extended from the base of his skull all the way down his spine, and two gleaming black horns stretched back from his head. He sported four more horns as well, two curving out towards the front of his wolf-like muzzle from behind his jawbone and two more protruding from his shoulder blades. Flames licked out of the sides of his mouth, throwing his features into a sinister light. Lava oozed from his jaws to run down the bristles of fur clinging to his lower jaw, and massive claws dug into the packed ground, tearing up chunks of rock. The clink of metal as the golden bracelets encircling his wrists rang against each other, and the click of glass as the purple beads wound onto his necklace clacked together with every movement. He bared his teeth—razor-sharp daggers—and Squall had the impression that the beast was grinning at him, mocking him. He raised his gunblade.

And then Ifrit leapt forward. Squall twisted aside, bringing Lionheart slicing horizontally across his body as he spun away. The blade passed through sinew and muscle, and Squall pulled the gunblade free as the Guardian Force let loose a roar before crashing into the cave floor. Bits of stone and rubble scattered through the air. Growling, the great beast picked himself up and turned. A jagged wound tore through Ifrit's right shoulder, and out of it poured steaming magma. A glare of hatred as Ifrit opened his jaw—

—and fire streamed out. Squall dove out of the way just in time and _felt _the heat of the flames as they struck a nearby boulder. He glimpsed the shimmering air, the now-orange and glowing rock, the thickness of the substance left behind. Something in his stomach turned at the sight of the molten stone that trickled slowly down the path. The rock—it had melted. He tried not to think of what would have happened if the fire had hit _him_.

Suddenly, something slammed into his chest, knocking him to the ground. Chest heaving for breath, he was partially aware of the shadow that fell over him. _Move!_ He rolled to the side, and an enormous talon smashed into the ground beside him, right where he had just been. Rust-colored dust flew up. Quickly, Squall grabbed at the floating magic, desperately trying to shape it into a useable form. Another black outline above him; he rolled the other way, his shoulder coming up against solid flesh. Lowering his fingers to touch the ground, he closed his eyes.

A moment later, a bellow of anger filled the cavern. Squall opened his eyes, saw that Ifrit's claws were frozen fast to the floor. But he knew that the ice wouldn't hold for long—already, it was melting—and he snatched his gun on his belt, crawling out from under the Guardian Force. Standing, he turned to face the monster, and aimed. Four explosions, four bullets lodged themselves into Ifrit's chest.

A shudder ran through the beast. Lava dripped out of the bullet wounds, running down the Fire Guardian's chest. Eyes of molten gold emanated a rabid fury. _"Impudent human! You believe that you can harm me?"_ And before Squall's very eyes, the bullet wounds in Ifrit's chest sealed themselves up. The cut on his shoulder disappeared, leaving only a pale scar to serve as a testimony to the injury. _"I am invincible! I am unconquerable! I am _indomitable_!"_ The ice chaining him to the ground began to crack, hairline slivers creeping through the frost.

Squall dropped the gun and withdrew, holding an arm over his eyes as shards flew everywhere, touched the lava, melted, steamed up. Cold knives rained over him, a painful yet welcome feeling, and when he lowered his arm, a ghostly mist tinged with pink shrouded the battlefield. Ifrit stood before him, his gargantuan frame blocking almost everything from view. Squall backed up, the hand holding Lionheart dangling uselessly by his side.

"_I am Ifrit, god of your Hell. Bow down to me," _Ifrit snarled, and lifted a hand to deal him a forceful backhand. But Squall brought up his gunblade in a wide slash, the silver blade biting deeply into the Guardian's arm as it came down. More blood—lava—trickled over Lionheart. A sharp yank, and Squall wrenched the weapon free before Ifrit could jerk it out of his hands. Another roar of pain. A small retreat, and Squall stabbed the monster in the chest and pulled the trigger.

An explosion like a detonation shook the air, made the stalactites vibrate. There was a silence, and then Squall felt an immense force throw him away to the side. Lionheart went clattering into the distance. His head struck the cavern wall and darkness encroached on the edge of his vision. The pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. The rush of blood. He couldn't hear anything, couldn't see. The world was spinning. What was happening?

He felt himself being lifted up by the collar of his shirt, felt claws digging into his back. Ripping agony drilled into his body, and a hot fluid trickled over his torso. Hot, stinking breath on his face. It smelled like brimstone, like fire. Like Hell.

"_Give up, human!"_

He coughed. Iron in his mouth. "N-No."

"_No?"_ Squall had the faint sense of being lifted higher._ "No?"_ Ifrit repeated, incredulous. _"Then you will be destroyed!"_

_Cure, Cure, Cure, Cure,_ his mind screamed, and Squall drew the magic in. A flash of white light lit the darkness of his lips. A soothing sensation crawling over his body, wiping away his pain and weakness. He opened his eyes, saw Ifrit snort in surprise. The claw opened. Squall fell out, and hit the ground rolling. His eyes caught on a flash of metal, and he lunged for the gunblade. His hand closed around the familiar grip. He spun around, thrust his weapon into the looming creature, pulled the trigger again. Another explosion, another roar. But before Ifrit could counter, Squall ducked beneath the Guardian Force's upraised arm, hacking at the knee as he evaded the beast's attack. He spun to face the injured monster, hand extended; a bolt of lightning leapt from his fingertips to strike Ifrit.

The Guardian Force endured the pain of the magical assault, but Squall could see teeth grinding together furiously, lava sloshing from his mouth. When the electricity waned, Ifrit raised a hand. A ball of fire formed within his palm, and he flung it at Squall. It exploded at Squall's feet. Debris filled his vision. When the dirt settled, Ifrit was gone.

Squall peered around, Lionheart held at the ready for a surprise attack. Where? His mind worked furiously. Ifrit had the power to heal himself, and was probably doing so even now. One demonstration of that particular attribute was certainly enough for Squall. That meant that he would have to injure the Guardian Force enough so as to impair Ifrit's ability to rejuvenate effectively. But how much was "enough"?

Suddenly, a stream of lava shot at him from out of nowhere, splattering against the ground. Squall evaded it, but felt some drops sear his skin; he gritted his teeth. He _would not_ show any pain. Not now when Ifrit was weak. Squall couldn't allow the Guardian Force to sense that he was at a disadvantage, or the beast would be heartened.

"_Surrender, mortal, and I will spare your unworthy life."_

Squall wiped at the sweat that had gotten in his eyes, pushed his bangs to the side, not bothering to reply. Eyes scanning the environment.

An eruption. He turned and watched as a grotesque frame burst from the lava-sea. Ifrit landed, and without hesitation, charged, head lowered, horns gleaming lethally in the firelight.

And Squall met the rush head-on. As the Guardian Force bore down on him, he thrust his gunblade into the beast's chest and pulled the trigger. A deafening blast. A heavy weight sagged against his blade. He could feel the heat traveling up his weapon. But he didn't let go. He pulled the trigger again. And again. And again. Kept pulling it until the chamber was empty, until it clicked uselessly in his hand.

_Then_, he pulled Lionheart out and backed away.

Ifrit staggered forth a step, staggered back a step, and finally slumped down, horned head bowed. A rasping breath shook his body as he tried to draw in some air. The wound in his chest was ugly, and magma trickled out to pool around his kneeling form. He was obviously attempting to heal himself, but the pain seemed to keep him from doing so, and, eventually, he just stopped trying.

Squall took a step closer. Ifrit's head snapped up at the sound of his approach. The light in the glowing eyes dimmed. _"I…am defeated…But how? For me to lose…and to a human!" _A pause, and Squall could almost imagine a sigh of resignation. _"No matter. I…" _Here, a hesitation. _"I offer you my allegiance, Squall Leonhart—my allegiance and my strength. Do you accept?"_

"I accept."

A shudder. _"You have it, then,"_ and then the Guardian Force disintegrated, breaking up into radiant wisps of red light that twirled briefly in the air before floating towards Squall. He inhaled as he felt a new force entered him, a new being taking residence in his psyche. A whisper of power. The heat no longer bothered him, he realized; in fact, it seemed to give him life, seemed to strengthen him. He had won, had passed, had actually junctioned Ifrit. But there was still the Field Exam, he reminded himself. Still, it was exhilarating, this feeling of accomplishment. He allowed a smile of satisfaction to flicker across his face for a second.

"Squall!" He turned at the sound of his name and saw Quistis approaching him. She was smiling. "That—"

Squall cut her off. "How much time do I have left?"

"Five, ten—it doesn't matter"—she waved a hand—"The fact is that you actually _beat_ him and he allowed you to junction him. That in itself is amazing! They'll probably overlook any time lapses; even if you go back half an hour late, you'll still pass! But"—here she chewed a lip—"are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he said. "We need to move."

"Yeah." Quistis nodded and pointed at the far wall of the cavern. "The door's open again." And Squall saw that she was right. The molten rock had reshaped to form the opening, and it appeared as if it had never changed. But a strange sense of foreboding crept up his spine. He suppressed a shiver. His earlier mood of elation vanished, only to be replaced by cold fingers of apprehension.

"Let's go," he said.

As they approached the crevice, Quistis remarked: "That really was amazing. I was right, you know."

He didn't really care about what she was right about, but he said, "About what?"

"You and Seifer—you two are in a league of your own."

He wondered what Seifer had done to obtain Quistis's approval while not junctioning the Guardian Force, but knew it was against Garden protocols to ask after other students' test results. Instead, he shrugged, and they passed into the dark tunnel. Squall once again called up Fire, and was pleasantly surprised at how simple, how _easy_ it was. He walked ahead of Quistis, boots striking the hard floor. He had not sheathed his gunblade; the ominous atmosphere remained.

Abruptly, a tremor rocked the cavern. Stumbling against a nearby wall, he cursed as he felt rough stone scrape against his skin. A clatter. Rocks were moving, were falling. The Fire Cavern was collapsing! Without Ifrit's presence, it seemed as though there was nothing left to hold the cave together. He heard a dark chuckle in his mind, confirming his suspicions. Ifrit _knew_, had _known_ all the while.

"We have to get out of here!" Quistis's voice was muffled. "The cavern's caving in!"

Squall shoved himself off the wall and grabbed her hand, tugging her after him, taking fast yet measured steps. If they ran, they might lose their footing in this blackness and trip. No, it was better to walk—walk fast, yes, but not run. He _would not _let Ifrit win.

But once they exited the tunnel, they _ran_, sprinting full length down the crumbling path. Lava swallowed the ground behind them, rose up in waves of fire, and stalactites fell from the ceiling to shatter upon the ground, sending small stone chips flying. Squall tightened his hold on Lionheart and let Quetzalcoatl's strength flow through his body, bolstering his flagging speed and endurance. He hoped that Quistis was doing the same.

When they finally reached the entrance, they leapt.

Squall hit the ground rolling, softening the impact; still, it jarred his teeth, and he winced as his back slammed into a boulder, halting his movement. He staggered up and looked around. The Garden Faculty members were picking themselves up off the ground and staring at the now-nonexistent cavern with amazement, as if they couldn't believe that it was gone. Quistis was nearby, groaning in pain. A white light radiated from her body as she Cured herself, and then stood up, wiping dust off her outfit. She shot him a shaky grin.

"That was close."

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**I'm alive. And guilty of laziness. But here you have it.**

**Ifrit is the FF10 version for no reason other than the fact that he looks way cooler. And there are two _Dante's Inferno_ references in there if you must know. I may be forgetting some other things because I'm tired, but that's how it stands so far. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, which clocks in at over 6k words; of course I made it extra long for you guys. And I blame any missing punctuation marks or spaces on the Document Manager.**

**If you have any thoughts, comments, questions, complaints, etc., just leave a review, and I'll be sure to get to it. Constructive criticism is, as always, much appreciated. And, once again, thanks for waiting.**


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